Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Do you think he is suspicious of us...?’ Marie threw a nervous look towards the door.

  Gisela nodded. ‘He understood me. He spoke to me in French; he knows the language. How, I don’t know.’ A dry exhausted feeling pulled at her eyelids; she rubbed savagely at her eyes. She needed to sleep, yet her body coursed with ripples of pent-up energy. ‘We must leave this town, Marie, and we have to leave it now. That Dane...he knows too much; it won’t be long before he’s back, possibly with others.’

  ‘But...the ransom money?’ Marie twisted the wet cloth that she had used to clean their father’s wound between her hands. Droplets of water fell on to the earthen floor. ‘Is there no hope of trying to find it?’

  ‘I don’t dare.’ Pushing away from the door, Gisela moved over to her father. He was asleep now, a gentle rattling snore emerging from his grey, chapped lips. Red lines of cracked skin, sore and peeling, radiated out from the corners of his mouth. Kneeling beside him, Gisela glanced up at her sister. ‘I’m too worried about being caught. If the Saxon townspeople find out who we really are, then...’ She stopped mid-sentence, her stomach churning. ‘Our only option is to leave this place and I will try to earn the coin in another town. It’s not safe here any more.’

  Marie dropped to her knees beside her, touched her elbow gently. Her woollen skirts puddled around her. ‘This is not like you, Gisela. I’ve never known you to run away from anything. You’ve always been the one to protect me, when it should have been the other way around.’ Her eyes fell to Gisela’s headscarf, wrapped tightly around her neck. ‘Why, even with Ralph de Pagenal, when you dragged me away from him...’ Marie’s voice wavered, dropping to a whisper. ‘Even on that awful day, you never gave up.’ She touched the brooch jabbed severely into the linen cloth at Gisela’s neck, the intricately wrought silver winking in the stuttering firelight. ‘And you paid the price for it, for which I am truly sorry.’

  Gisela shook her head, a swift negative movement. ‘It’s nothing, Marie. Don’t make more of it than it really is. I was never going to let that man force you into a marriage like that. A barbarian such as him.’

  ‘And yet you stood up to him.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ A small crease appeared between her fine arched brows as she pondered the crumpled figure of her father. Was Marie right? If she had lost her nerve, then she knew the reason why. A pair of glittering green eyes swept across her vision.

  ‘The Dane has made me afraid,’ she whispered. It wasn’t the Saxon townspeople that scared her; it was the thought of meeting him again. Her stomach flipped in agitation. The thought of what he could do to her. The rough tussle of his firm lips against hers. Her loins gripped with a sudden, intense longing; a nervous anticipation, thrilling along her veins. She flushed, guiltily.

  ‘Is he any worse than Ralph de Pagenal?’

  Nay, he could not have been more different. Instinct had told her, from the very moment she had encountered him, out there on the mudflats, that he was not a cruel man, despite the stories they had been fed since childhood of the notorious Danish ways. She hung her head, massaging the skin that pained her beneath her scarf. ‘He’s nothing like him.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Marie said sensibly, ‘surely it’s worth the risk to try to find the money? It will take you months to earn back the same amount if we leave now. We don’t even have the coin to pay the ferryman!’

  Gisela’s heart curled with despair. Her sister spoke the truth. For a moment, she longed to squeeze her eyes tight shut and let the big, fat tears of failure dribble down her cheeks. Allow her slight frame to shudder with bleak anguish. But, no, she would not give in to such weak affectations; she was made of stronger stuff than that. It was the Dane who had nibbled at her courage, the Dane who she must erase from her mind in order to regain her confidence and go out looking for the money.

  She picked at a loose piece of skin on her thumb. ‘You’re right, Marie. I know you are. But he’s not the only Dane in town and you know their reputation. It does make me think twice about venturing out again.’

  ‘But you are clever, Gisela. They’re all idiots, block-headed; you can outwit men like that, just as you’ve always done.’

  ‘Maybe.’ But the slender thread of her voice lacked conviction. There was nothing idiotic about Ragnar; his whole demeanour conveyed a quick-witted intelligence. Those iridescent eyes missed nothing. She sincerely hoped she would never see them again, for she could not shake the feeling that she had met her match with the tall, broad-shouldered Dane.

  * * *

  ‘Ragnar! Over here!’ Spotting his friend appearing through the inn doorway, Eirik raised his tankard in greeting, yelling over to him, ‘By Odin, man, where have you been?’ A suggestive leer tugged at the side of his mouth. ‘I didn’t think it would take you this long to tup the maid! I hope she was worth it.’

  Ragnar walked towards Eirik, his fellow Danes stepping back with respect for the tall warrior so he could pass through the crowds. The inn was large, the cavernous height topped by an impressive ceiling of thick vaulted arches. The whole company of Danes crowded into the space, as well as many of their Saxon supporters, including women. Heavy acrid smoke belched out from the fire, filling the air and stinging the eyes, coupled with the stench of stale beer and horse dung trodden in from the street. Tallow candles, set in iron holders along the roughly-plastered walls, cast a feeble light on to the ground, creating shadowy corners, dark spots.

  Irritation rose in his chest at Eirik’s words; of course, his friend would expect him to have bedded the maid, against her will, as justified punishment for what she had done. His loins stirred, mind darkening. The thought of those soft, pliable limbs against his own sent renewed flickers of desire coursing through his veins. He had wanted her. But not like that, not clamped against the wall of some darkened alley. And definitely not against her will. Despite her rudeness, her wayward behaviour, the annoying maid was worth more than that.

  ‘Sit down and tell me everything!’ Eirik slurred. His burly arm tightened around the girl on his lap. ‘Nay, don’t go, sweet, you’re fine where you are.’ Ragnar threw himself into the empty chair next to his friend, his long legs stretching out across the greasy, ale-stained flagstones.

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ he replied brusquely. He was reluctant to share the details of the maid with Eirik, even if the man was his closest friend. It felt like a betrayal, somehow. She was in such a dangerous, exposed position in this town; the last thing he wished to do was to make that position worse. Gisela. Her name whispered around his brain, a gentle torment, distracting him.

  ‘What was she like, eh?’ Eirik nudged him roughly in the arm. ‘Did she fight back? I bet she did, little wildcat, she looked just the type. Why, I thought she was going to kill me, with that knife in her hand and that look on her face!’

  Nausea rose in Ragnar’s gullet, a vast tide of revulsion. He wasn’t that sort of man, never had been, and Eirik knew that. Normally. It was only because he was so drunk that he was saying such things. He wanted to steer his friend away from the subject of the maid and fast. Someone handed him a tankard of ale and he stared moodily at the pieces of straw floating on the scummy surface.

  Eirik studied Ragnar’s grim silent profile, his clenched jaw. ‘I expect you did what needed to be done to prevent her doing anything like that again. Crazy wench! What on earth possessed her to attack me?’

  Sheer desperation, Ragnar thought. Sheer desperation had made her lunge at Eirik, with no thought to her own safety. The maid had been furious that their money had been stolen and a great deal of money by the sound of it. He wondered why they were carrying it, the reason why it was needed. ‘I’m not sure.’ Picking out a floating piece of straw from his ale, he threw it on the floor.

  ‘This place is a hell-hole,’ Eirik said, following the disgruntled flick of Ragnar’s fingers. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Guthrun, the local Saxon lord, has offered
us board and lodging for the night. Good news, eh?’

  Ragnar nodded, meeting his friend’s eyes, relieved that the subject had been changed from the Norman maid. The less she was spoken about, the better. That way, he could push her from his mind and concentrate on the reason he was here in England. She had been an entrancing distraction, nothing more. He wondered what she was doing now. Were they packing up and moving on, the maid anxious at her unwanted disclosure in front of him? Disquiet lodged in his chest, a heavy sense of foreboding, and, aye, responsibility. The maid was none of his concern and yet he felt responsible.

  Eirik stood up, so abruptly that the woman slid from his lap, landing with an outraged squeal on the straw-covered flagstones. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said, ignoring the girl’s grumbling threats as she scrambled to her feet, brushing down the front of her gown. ‘Guthrun has offered us food and I, for one, am starving.’

  ‘Just us?’ Ragnar rose from his seat.

  ‘Some of the men have gone to sleep on the ships.’ Eirik reached for his cloak, drawing the heavy felted wool around his shoulders. ‘Most of them have walked up to the castle already. Guthrun has a large hay barn that they can bed down in. It’s only this rabble left to accompany us.’ He stuck his brooch pin through the thick wool to secure the two sides of his cloak, his fingers fumbling with the catch.

  Realising their leaders were about to leave, the Danish warriors drained their pewter mugs and wiped their mouths with their sleeves, prepared to follow. Sensing an immediate loss of coin, the innkeeper remonstrated with them, his tone wheedling, imploring them to stay. They ignored his pleas. Tankards set aside, sword belts were hitched up and adjusted, and any willing Saxon maidens were scooped up for the night ahead.

  ‘This way,’ said Eirik, as he and Ragnar emerged from the smoky haze on to the cobbled street. A couple of the Danes had taken burning torches from the inn, holding them aloft to light the way. The wavering flame shed sparks through the darkness, along a street lined with cottages. Shutters were latched firmly over the window openings; the townspeople would be huddled around their fires by now.

  Eirik caught his foot in an open drain and swore loudly, staggering against Ragnar. ‘Nay, nay, I’m fine,’ he said, as Ragnar reached for his arm. ‘Thor’s teeth, that Saxon ale is strong!’ Regaining his balance, he led their men with a lurching, disjointed gait towards the castle, visible in the moon-soaked night on a wooded hillock to the south of the town, away from the river.

  At the far end, beneath the overhanging gable of a house, a huddle of Saxons appeared, heading towards them, two men holding up what looked like a bundle of clothes, a stretch of dangling rags between them. As they came nearer, Ragnar realised it was a young boy, his feet swinging uselessly above the cobbles, each shoulder gripped in a Saxon’s meaty fist. The boy’s head hung down, features obscured by a large floppy hat.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Eirik stepped to one side, his men ranked around him, allowing the Saxons to pass.

  ‘Caught this varmint stealing!’ The man nearest them uttered a curse, then spat on the ground. His rotten teeth glowed, stained a brownish yellow in the light of the Danes’ torch.

  Drunk, uninterested, Eirik threw them no more than a cursory glance, then walked on. Moving out from the shadow of the gabled house, Ragnar made to follow, when a hint of rose perfume caught his nostril, a smell so faint he thought he might have imagined it. But, no, there it was again, a whisper against his brain, tickling his senses. Memory shoved through him, a shard of recognition driving through his mind like a blade of steel. His heart knocked against his ribcage. It was her smell. Gisela.

  Ragnar peered at the figure suspended between the two men. Was it her? Or was his conscience playing tricks on him? His eyes raked the coarsely woven tunic, the long baggy braies tied at the ankles and the enormous hat. Delicate hands, fragile wrists, hung down against the nondescript clothing. She might have fooled these slow-witted Saxons, dressed as a lad, but he knew exactly who this was. The clue was in those hands. The urge to reach out and pluck her from the men’s cruel grip surged through him; he bunched his fists by his side, to prevent himself from seizing her. Take it slowly, he told himself.

  ‘What are you going to do with...him?’ Ragnar’s voice was hoarse, tangled in his throat.

  ‘Why, lashes, of course. That’s what all the thieves get in this town.’

  Ice coagulated in his veins, chilling his thoughts. These men would strip that tunic from her back and see. See that she was a woman and, instead of whipping that perfect skin, they would surely punish her in other ways.

  ‘Surely you should take any wrongdoers to your lord, for him to mete out justice,’ Ragnar found himself saying. His speech was oddly truncated, constricted, as if emerging from a narrow gully. He cleared his throat; his palms were sweating. He could not let this happen to her! She might be reckless and naive, but she had no one in this town to stand up for her, no one at all. Apart from him.

  Eirik was looking back at him oddly. ‘What of it, Ragnar?’ he slurred, bracing his shoulder against a lumpy cob wall. ‘Don’t get involved. Let these townsfolk deal with the lad as they see fit. It’s none of our concern.’

  It is, he thought. She is. She is my concern. I want her to be my concern. I can’t let this happen to her.

  Eirik had closed his eyes, his body slumping suddenly against the wall. The skin on his face was ashen, greasy in the flickering torchlight. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Take Jarl Eirik up to the castle,’ Ragnar rapped out the order to their men. ‘And you...’ He jabbed a finger at the nearest Saxon. ‘Give that lad to me. I will take him up to Lord Guthrun.’

  ‘The thing is, sire...’

  ‘Are you refusing to give me the lad?’ Ragnar’s voice contained the hint of a threat. Between the two men, Gisela’s head had begun to sway; she uttered a faint groan. He had to get her away and soon. Eirik had moved off, men supporting him on either side.

  The biggest of the Saxon men eyed Ragnar up, his scowling gaze assessing across the Dane’s massive shoulders, the heft of his sword, then sank back, obviously thinking the better of challenging him. Ragnar’s superior height and obvious fighting strength was intimidating, oppressive. ‘Here, you can have the little thief then, if you insist!’ The Saxon shoved the pathetic figure towards Ragnar. ‘At least we have our coin back!’ He held up a bulging leather bag, swinging it tauntingly, before they all strode off, grumbling to each other.

  Ragnar caught Gisela before she slid to the ground, the soft felt hat crumpling against his tunic as her head bumped forward against him. Hitching her up, he braced her against his hip, tipping up the brim of her hat. A purpling bruise marred her cheek; a patch of redness, like a graze, scuffed her forehead, above her right eye.

  Shock coursed through him, a jolt of anger, at the damage to her face. He wanted to hit, punch out at the man who had done this to her. ‘In Odin’s name, you foolish woman, what has happened to you?’ he murmured, hauling her against his muscled flank.

  * * *

  Dazed, her mind scrabbling frantically for lucidity, Gisela rolled her head up to the man who held her. She caught a distinctive fragrance: of woodsmoke and the sea. The Dane. Ragnar. Of course it would be him, ready to mock her for her stupidity. Her brain refused to help, refused to form any words of protest as he started to march forward purposefully, clamping her to his side. She stumbled alongside him, her body stripped of any ability to fight him. Her legs wobbled, weak and uncoordinated; a threatening nausea rose in her gullet. There was no way she could walk unaided. Shameful as it was, she would have to rely on him if she were to reach the cottage safely.

  The street opened out on to a grassy area, sloping up to the lip of a moat that circled Guthrun’s castle. In the moonlight, the grass took on a silver sheen, waving in the slight breeze, like long silken hair. Gisela frowned. They had taken a wrong turning, surely. This was
not the way back to the cottage.

  ‘I must stop...please,’ Gisela gasped, clutching the brawny arm that roped her waist.

  Ragnar halted his stride beneath a cluster of oak trees. The castle turrets rose up before them, grimly forbidding against the milky-grey night sky, the shifting cloud. Chinks of light blazed out from some of the arrow slits; raised voices echoed out into the night air as the guards passed each other on the curtain wall. Unlooping his arm from her waist, Ragnar kept one hand on Gisela’s shoulder, steadying her.

  ‘What is this place?’ she asked, eyeing the high castle walls warily. ‘I thought you were taking me back to my father!’

  ‘So you can do the same thing again?’ Raising his fingers, Ragnar skimmed the vicious bruise on her cheek. ‘I might not be there the next time. You were fortunate that I recognised you when I did.’

  ‘It’s not your place to make decisions for me,’ she replied grumpily. ‘Why, I barely know you. I would have found a way to get free of them.’

  Ragnar raised one brindled eyebrow, clearly disagreeing with her. ‘How did they catch you?’

  She lifted her free shoulder, debating whether to tell him. ‘My father could remember the man who had taken the money, a man who he had played cards with before. He knew where he lived.’ Speaking the unfamiliar Saxon language, her speech was halting, hesitant, as she struggled to find the right words. ‘I went to the cottage; no one was there. The bag with the money was sitting on the table, in plain sight through the window. The door wasn’t bolted. I ran in and grabbed it, but as I turned, he...the man walked in. I was unlucky.’ She swayed before him, expression mutinous and closed, tipping her chin up in a defiant gesture.